He's Not that Guy, and She's Not that Girl
by TigerLily888
Summary: A rather dark, angst-filled fic about Hotch and Emily. Oneshot.


**This came to me after I watched a video of Thomas Gibson where he was questioned about whether Emily and Hotch would ever get together. His answer was "He's not that guy, and she's not that girl." Or something like that. Anyhow, this fic was born after I dropped into a funk :( So don't read this is if you're expecting a happy ending. The video is on youtube, just put this in at the end /watch?v=SXfFSDmAhHI  
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**On the bright-ish side, I never thought I'd be able to write a dark, angsty tale of sex without a happily-ever-after, so you've been warned!** **Mature audiences please.**

**Disclaimer: I own none of these characters, otherwise, Hotch would BE that guy and Emily would BE that girl!**

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><p>She trudges wearily into her apartment, drops of water dripping heavily from her folded umbrella which she props against the corner of the wall. She pushes the door close with her foot, too tired to even turn back to use her hand. But before the door shuts, it swings open violently, hitting the door stop with a bang. She swings around in a flash, her hand immediately dropping to her Glock. Her heart is thumping hard with fear for the second time that day.<p>

She barely suppresses a gasp when she sees who it is before her. The door slams shut and she whispers his name questioningly. But he doesn't hear because he is shouting at her. What the hell were you thinking, Prentiss, he roars, face thunderous. His dark eyes pierce into her and she feels her chest tighten with anxiety. He has never directed his anger at her before and she feels a flash of pain stab at her. You could have been killed, where were your brains, he yells. She is speechless in the face of his anger. But what is worse is the disappointment in his eyes. What was the point of protecting you from Doyle when you obviously don't give a damn about your own life, he grinds out. He clamps his jaw shut, his breaths hissing through his nostrils. Water drips from his hair and his FBI issued jacket. Why, he continues in a harsh voice. Why did you do it, Emily. Softer now. Is that pain she hears in his voice?

She licks her rain dampened lips. I'm sorry, she finally whispers. She isn't even sure if he hears her, the rain is drumming down hard outside and thunder rumbles ominously overhead. He stares unblinkingly at her, face set in hard lines, mouth a thin grim line. To her shame she feels tears prick her eyes and she presses her lips tightly together to stop them from trembling. Don't cry, Emily, don't cry, she warns herself. She had to be strong. She _is_ strong. No matter what he says, she knows she would have done it all again. Right or wrong, brave or reckless.

A muscle ticks in his jaw and she can almost feel the ferocity of his emotions that lay just under the surface. From the look in his eyes she knows that he is only holding on to his control by the most tenuous of a thread. She shivers, from nerves, from the cold, she doesn't know what. And then she can only watch with wide eyes as right before her, his control snaps and he is suddenly next to her, cupping her face roughly with his hard, gun-calloused palms. The last thing she sees are his wet eyelashes and then his mouth crashes down on hers. There is nothing gentle about this kiss. There is no finesse, no slow seduction, no attempt to draw out the sensations. It is hard, rough and ravaging. His tongue pillages her mouth without invitation.

But she doesn't care. After the first stunned second, she kisses him back just as ferociously. She presses her mouth hard against his, her hands reaching up and gripping his head, entwining her fingers into his wet hair and gripping tightly. He shrugs off his jacket and pushes her backwards with his body and her back hits the wall with a thud. Without breaking contact with her lips, he puts his hands on her jacket and drags it off roughly. While his hands undo her belt, her hands are on his, fumbling with the wet buckle. She kicks off her boots and he does the same with his shoes, their breaths fanning each others' faces.

She finally manages to unfasten his belt and she hooks her thumbs into the waistband of his pants and briefs and pushes them downwards, their tongues duelling and tangling the whole time. He pulls her pants down, the weight of her holstered gun assisting gravity and she quickly kicks her pants off. He pulls away and her eyes fly open when she hears a ripping sound but her brain has barely registered the fact that he has just torn her panties off when he grips her thighs and lifts her up, bracing her back against the wall. Her hands automatically grip his shoulders for balance, his shirt damp under her palms.

She suddenly feels the tip of him against her. Their eyes locked and without any preliminaries, he thrusts into her. She sucks in a breath as her vision dims. He is larger than she expects and it has been a long time for her. Her body fights to accept him as he continues to push relentlessly into her slick depths, refusing to accept any resistance. Despite her arousal, pain starts to blossom but in the instant before she would have cried out in protest, he stops, fully seated within her. Slowly her inner muscles relax and the discomfort fades. He murmurs her name and she feels something flare in her chest at the burning intensity in his eyes. And then he is thrusting into her, his hips pistoning between her thighs. She keens wildly as the sensations flood her body, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her body stiffens and she moans out his name when she falls over the edge, the pleasure almost unbearable. He follows her a moment later, pushing deep and holding still as he jets his release into her. They stay there for an indeterminate length of time, their panting breaths and frantic heartbeats finally slowing down.

Hold on to me, he murmurs and tightening his grip on her thighs, swivels around and walks down the hall to her bathroom. Once there, he lets her down and she stands on legs that feel strangely weak, watching him silently as he runs the bath. He takes her cotton top off, then her bra, his eyes darkening when he sees the tight buds of her nipples. He cups her breasts in his hands and strokes his thumbs across the tips, making her breath catch in her throat. Even as she feels a rush of renewed desire and stares at him, eyes heavy with passion as he strips off his shirt and t-shirt.

He steps into the bath and holds out his hand for her. She sits down in front of him, her back against his chest and sighs as the hot water surrounds her, soothing away the aches and soreness that are already forming. They lay there for some time, both silent. She doesn't know what to say. She is acutely aware that he is her superior. Nothing has changed. He will never sacrifice his job and neither will she. She has gone through too much to give up now. So it will just be tonight. And when tomorrow comes, they will pretend as if tonight never happened. She is okay with that. She has to be.

His left hand, which had been resting on her stomach glides downwards. She says nothing, and only sighs as his fingers slip into the warmth between her thighs. His middle finger lazily circle her sensitive nub and she feels her thighs jerk as a shaft of pleasure stabs through her groin. His finger moves south and gently strokes her where he had previously entered her, as if he was apologising for his previous roughness. Back up it travels to her swollen bud, and then he settles down to business, stroking her firmly. Tension coils tighter and tighter in the pit of her stomach and the muscles in legs start to tense. The only sound in the bathroom was her soft pants and the soft lapping of water against the edge of the bath. There is a sudden swish of water as her body jerks and her soft cry echoes in the enclosed space.

He only allows her a short while to recover and then lifts her over him, still facing away from him. She braces her hands on the rim of the bathtub as he holds himself steady for her. She bites her lip as she sinks slowly down on him, her inner muscles fluttering to accommodate his length and breadth. Her breath hitches when she feels a pinch and his hands tighten around her waist, slowing down her descent. He is finally enclosed within her and she tightens around him, feeling his iron hardness throbbing within her soft depths.

Slowly, methodically, he works her up and down on his shaft. She knows her body is unlikely to reach another peak for some time and wants this to be all for him. She starts to move faster, her previous climax easing the way for him. Each time she descends upon him he grunts softly, the noises sounding sexy to her, telling her that he was finding pleasure in her motions, in her body. When she hears him start to breath faster, she knows that he was getting close. She starts to tighten her muscles around him as she lifts, smiling when she hears him groan. His hands tighten painfully on her waist and she sees his toes curling under the water as he calls out her name through gritted teeth. She feels him pulsing deep within her and she closes her eyes, trying to engrave this moment into her memory.

They fall asleep together, and even though their bodies do not touch, it is the best night of sleep they have had in a very long time. She is only half awake when he takes her again, stroking her gently with his finger as he thrust into her from behind. She sighs softly as a gentle climax washes over her and feels him stiffen behind her, his breath warm and moist on her neck.

When she wakes up again, he is gone. He has even put her clothes into her washing machine, erasing all traces of the night before. It is as if it had all been a dream. The only evidence the dampness between her thighs. She curls up in a ball and sobs.

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><p>They never speak of that night and he treats her as he always does, their professional relationship unaltered in any way. She knows that he has put their encounter out of his mind, though she has not. She admits to herself that she has always had feelings for him, and after that night, she knows that she loves him. But nothing can come of it. So she pushes it away, and puts on her mask. She too, can fake it.<p>

A month passes and they are in Boulder, Colorado for a consult. She has been certain that he had completely forgotten about that night and so she is taken by surprise when she opens her door to find him staring at her with an inscrutable expression, his eyes hard. She knows that he blames himself for being unable to save the last victim, even though there had been nothing anyone could have done. It is one of the many reasons why she loves him.

Which is why she stands aside to let him in. Why she is unresisting when he slips her camisole off her shoulders and carries her to the bed. And why she holds him tight while he pounds himself into her, her body jolting with each hard thrust, as if by his very actions, she is helping keep his demons at bay. And maybe she is. Because his eyes meet hers when Morgan remarks at how much less tense he appears and asks him what his secret is.

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><p>Three months elapse. In that time their encounters, although intense, are always brief, over almost before she realises it. He comes to her apartment several more times, but now he never stays the night. Another time he takes her on his desk in his office while they are working late, his hand on her mouth muffling her cries. They even court the danger of discovery to the extent of giving in to their passion in the toilet on the jet. Each time they come together, it is furtive, ashamed almost.<p>

She is unable to stay away from him, despite her best intentions. She yearns for him like a drug. She hates that she is dependent on him. He, on the other hand, seems more in control of himself, able to remain removed. She knows she must end it. She thinks the team is starting to suspect something. Her suspicions prove correct when she overhears Morgan and Rossi's conversation. Morgan asks Rossi whether he thought there was anything going on between her and their Unit Chief. She isn't able to hear Rossi's answer, but Morgan replies and says that surely they aren't so stupid as to be involved. He's not that guy, and she's not that girl, she hears her friend say.

She knows what she has to do. She goes to his apartment with the best of intentions, but she is lost the moment he opens the door and looks at her with his dark eyes. She comes to her senses to find her staring at herself in the mirror, hands braced on the dresser as he thrusts into her, his hands gripping her hips so tightly that she knew there will be bruises. She does not recognise that woman in the mirror. The woman with flushed cheeks and eyes that appear drugged and unfocused. This is not her. She suddenly feels nothing as he finishes behind her. While he recovers, she calmly dresses herself and then turns to look at him.

It's over, she tells him. I can't do this anymore. I don't know who I am, but this is not me. He stares at her, stunned. The minutes ticked by, and then he slowly nods his head. You're right, he replies. I'm sorry. Forgive me, he adds quietly.

There's nothing to forgive, she says softly. A quickly whispered goodbye and she is through the door. She surprises herself by not crying. She knows that she has done the right thing. Even if the pain she feels is as if someone has cut out her very soul. But she is strong and she will survive. She has to.

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><p>And she does. She is even able to smile when she meets his blond fiancee for the first time, her easy smile that of someone who has never witnessed the horrors that they face on a daily basis. Emily's eyes meet her supervisor's for just a moment as the rest of the team introduce themselves. She doesn't regret what she has done. Because Morgan had been right.<p>

He's not that guy and she's not that girl.

**I'm not expecting many reviews, not of the 'happy' variety anyway, but please send me one if you can.**

**Also, thanks, Tigereye77 for your PMs, it was good chatting, and I hope we're wrong about the love interest for Hotch.  
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